


To Build a Home

by cagedbirdsong



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Canon Divergence, Claire stays, F/M, death of a child
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-03-01 22:56:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13305102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagedbirdsong/pseuds/cagedbirdsong
Summary: His boots were loud, too loud, on the floor as he crossed the room, and he saw Claire’s shoulders stiffen, though she didn’t lift her face.He knew why. The realization had settled sourly in his chest, and he was conscious of nothing save how quiet the room was. It wasn’t supposed to be quiet.He reached the bedside on autopilot and sank down next to his wife, her name broken and building on his tongue and reached one trembling hand out as if to touch her shoulder, but let it drop to his lap as he looked down into her arms.She was perfect.~~~A canon divergence that begins with Claire and Jamie going to Lallybroch instead of France. After the death of their firstborn child, the couple must prepare for the coming war. With a surprise pregnancy discovered shortly before the Battle of Culloden, however, the couple must begin to make preparations for the rest of their lives and decide what they are going to do in order to survive the aftermath and the chaos of war-torn Scotland. Claire stays AU.





	1. Part One

His feet were leaden. With every step, they seemed to get heavier, and even though he was running, he felt stuck in quicksand. It was as if the earth had reached up and wrapped itself around his ankles, threatening to swallow him whole. In the distance, the roof of his childhood home was silhouetted against the sky. It was just over the ridge now, up over the next hill, yet he might as well have been miles away.  

The rocks underfoot were loose, and his feet slid on the gravel, his footing momentarily lost. His hands his the dirt first, and he felt the shock of it jar up his arms. When he pushed himself back to his feet, there were little bits of rock clinging to his palms, but he stumbled into action once more, fighting towards the house with the stable hand’s breathless voice screaming in his head. 

_ “Mac Dubh, yer sister says ye must come quick, it’s Mistress Claire -”  _ the boy, Jamie figured no older than thirteen, hadn’t had time to finish his sentence before the Highlander had launched himself into action, the pitchfork in his hand dropping into the dirt with a muted thud. 

The house was eerily quiet when he finally reached it, enough that for a few infinitely long seconds he tripped to a halt, his chest heaving and cold sweat pooling in the small of his back. 

A cold wind urged him once more towards the door, and he found himself spirited in and drifting, powerless and lost, ghostly. Jenny was loitering at the end of the hall, wringing her hands on a towel, and when she turned to face him Jamie could see the shiny tracks of tears on her cheeks, her wide doe eyes welling up and spilling over. 

His heart sank into his stomach like a rock. Jenny’s mouth opened and closed, searching for words, and the sound of his name died on her lips as he rushed past her, thundering up the stairs with his heart in the back of his throat. Behind him, his sister’s voice cracked in a sob. 

When he stepped into his bedroom, the energy in the air snatched his breath from his chest, and he stood in the doorway, a stranger looking in. 

She was shaking. He could see the tremor run through her, her body quivering like a struck sword. She was curled in on herself, looking helplessly small on the wide expanse of the bed, and the afternoon light briefly caught on the bed, silhouetting her and simultaneously exposing the once stark sheets, now red and ruined. 

His boots were loud, too loud, on the floor as he crossed the room, and he saw Claire’s shoulders stiffen, though she didn’t lift her face. 

He knew why. The realization had settled sourly in his chest, and he was conscious of nothing save how quiet the room was. It wasn’t supposed to be quiet.

He reached the bedside on autopilot and sank down next to his wife, her name broken and building on his tongue and reached one trembling hand out as if to touch her shoulder, but let it drop to his lap as he looked down into her arms. 

She was perfect. 

Her tiny little face was relaxed in a mockery of sleep, the feathery lashes, still developing, casting shadows on her cheeks, the rosy blush of life stolen from them too soon. Her mouth was set in a pucker, her eyebrows furrowed, and the faintest wisp of hair standing up on her head. One delicate porcelain hand had come untucked from her swaddling, and one impossibly tiny little foot stuck out lower down, tiny little toes still curled.

Jamie felt his soul, somewhere deep down inside him, shrivel up and die. 

It started somewhere behind his ribs, building and bubbling up in his tattered heart, and then flooded down into his stomach. He rocked forward, his vision swimming, and his limbs turned to jelly. His mouth hung stupidly open, but no sound came out save the billowing of his breath, shallow and fast and frantic. He wanted to look away, to see anything except the small child lying in his wife’s arms, but to look away felt like a sin. 

Claire lifted her face then, and the brokenness in it was the nail in his coffin. She had a glass complexion, and it had been shattered completely. A torrent of tears still flooded down her cheeks, her eyes were rimmed wide and red, her cheeks puffy from crying, and her lips trembled. Around her head, her hair was a flyaway mess. She had never looked so small. 

Trembling, Jamie lifted one hand to her cheek, and she sobbed weakly, clutching their daughter to her bosom. Her eyes wavered, a fresh wave of tears momentarily blinding her, and when she spoke, her voice was raspy and broken from her crying. “Ten fingers and ten toes.”

James Fraser went thoroughly and completely to pieces. 


	2. Part Two

They christened her Brigid Elizabeth. 

It had been something they had talked about briefly, when the world was ripe and rich with possibility, laid out at their feet like an offering. At the time, it had seemed so trivial… so ordinary, discussing what their child’s name should be. 

They had been curled up in bed until late into the morning, with the sun creeping warm and yellow across the floor. Claire had been spooned up to his side, half asleep while he absently dragged his fingers along the small curve of her stomach, the two of them suspended in those rare blissful moments where everything else ceases to exist. 

_ “Have ye thought of any names, Sassenach?”  _

_ He felt the curve of Claire’s small, sleepy smile against his shoulder, and she covered his hand with hers, brushing her thumb along his knuckles before lacing their fingers together. “Well, if it’s a boy, maybe Brian? Or William?” She lifted her face to meet his, eyes warm and sweet as honey, and he felt himself melting.  _

_ “Mm. I like that. Brian William ye think? William Brian’s no’ got as nice a ring.” He flashed her one of his signature crooked smiles, blinking down at her like some great red owl, and she shook her head with a laugh, resting her chin on his chest to look at him.  _

_ “Brian William. And what if it’s a girl?”  _

_ Jamie took the moment to snake one arm around her waist, his fingers tapping idly against her hip as he thought. “Hmm. Well, I was thinkin’ maybe Laoghaire,” he teased, grinning and ducking nimbly out of the way as Claire reached up to bat him round the ears.  _

_ “I’m being serious, you bloody Scot!” Her nose scrunched up with mirth and crows feet perched at the corners of her eyes. God, how he loved them.  _

_ Reigning in his laughter, he sighed and dragged his fingertips down her spine, relishing in the little shiver that rippled through her. “Do ye like the name Brigid? I’ve been thinkin’ on it a while. It’s a good name, ye ken, means strength and power.” He brought his hand up to idly tuck a few errant curls behind Claire’s ear, letting his thumb linger on her cheek. “Beauty.” _

_ She had just smiled, made a noise of approval somewhere in her chest, and laid her head back down.  _

At the time, it had been so simple. Everything had been so simple, so full of light and life.

Nothing was simple now. 

Jenny had tentatively come into the room twice, nervous as the little birds she used to save, but had turned back around both times without a word. Still, her intentions were clear. Jamie could almost hear her voice in his head.  _ It’s been hours, mo chride. The bairn’s gone… this will do ye no good.  _

He knew she didn’t mean for her presence to seem insensitive, which is why he suspected she hadn’t spoken, but as the sun sank towards the horizon, Jamie’s skin began to itch. 

At some point, Claire spoke, her voice broken and cracked, raw from her grief and disuse. “I won’t give her to them, Jamie, they can’t have my baby. Make them go away.” When she had looked at him, her eyes had seen through him, and he had stared back at his own reflection in their wide, endless depths. He had hushed her at the time, told her no one was going to take the bairn, but the ice in his stomach only seemed to grow colder. 

When at last he could delay it no more, he reached gently for his daughter, urging Claire to quietly give her to him. At first, her hands tightened possessively on the lifeless bundle, her eyes flashing with maternal rage, but then she had slumped, the fight gone out of her, and she had allowed him to carefully scoop their child into his arms. 

God, how was she so small? 

As soon as he had taken her, it was as if the fragile string that had been holding Claire up all day had snapped. Without the weight of her child to ground her, she slumped, turning her back to the door, and Jamie heard her quiet sobs even as the heavy oak door closed behind him. 

Somehow, he managed to make it down the stairs, both arms wrapped possessively around the small child he carried, his eyes unseeing and brimming with tears he had not shed since earlier that afternoon. Claire had needed him to be strong, for the both of them, and so he had held her and looked down into the face of their dead baby and kept his composure. 

As soon as he hit the bottom stair, however, his knees gave way, and he sank weakly to the ground, the banister supporting his weight. He looked down at his daughter and began to shake. 

She was so incredibly small and so delicate in his rough, calloused hands. Her head fit into the curve of his palm like it was made to rest there, and one small hand curled beneath her chin. If she had been born with life in her blood, she would have barely been able to hold onto his finger, as tiny as she was. Her little feet were half the length of his thumb, toes like small beans, and he could trace the veins through her translucent skin. Two little shells of ears stuck off the side of her head ever so slightly, so jarringly similar to his own, and the faintest wisp of red hair that stuck up on her head held the promise of one day blazing like his. 

Except that promise would never be kept. 

He dragged one finger hesitantly down her cheek, which was like ice, and bowed his head to his chest, sobbing silently as he clutched her, his own heart’s blood, to his chest. 

He might have sat there for hours, or it may have been only minutes, but he was conscious only of Jenny’s soothing, choked voice, and her hands beneath his arms, lifting him carefully to his feet. She wiped his face with a cool cloth, smoothed one hand through his hair, and took a brief moment to look down at her niece, trying - and failing - to keep her composure from cracking. With her own belly still swollen with the very same hope that had been robbed her brother, she undoubtedly felt shameful, guilty, disgusting. Jamie saw the tremble begin in her chin, but before he could say or do anything, she had dashed the tears from her cheeks and stood to kiss his forehead before leading him outside. 

Ian and one of the farmhands had dug a small grave. It was small, but deep and unwelcoming, the smell of the overturned, wet earth sharp as poison in Jamie’s nose. Next to the freshly dug grave, a small makeshift casket had been laid. It was little more than a wooden box that had been lined with what was undoubtedly one of Jenny’s finer pieces of silk, and for some reason, that sight alone was enough to make his stomach turn. 

Leaving Jenny to go back inside and tend to Claire as best she could, Jamie made his way numbly across the grass, his feet moving unbidden as he approached the shadow of the tree, the sun now nearly gone behind the mountains. 

“Jamie, lad…” Ian’s voice sounded raw too, like he had gargled with pebbles. 

Jamie just shook his head, sniffed once, and kneeled down next to the box, laying his child as gently as possible inside. “Her name is Brigid,” he breathed, harsh as sand yet soft as a whisper. After that, neither he nor Ian spoke. Jamie leaned down to kiss the small girl’s forehead once, covered her as carefully as possible with the silk, and then had placed the small lid on the box. He sat there for a small infinity, staring down at the rough-hewn wood beneath his hands, and then picked it up and lowered himself ungraciously down into the grave to place the casket with trembling hands on the dirt.

It took all of his energy to climb back out. He hit his knees, and Ian urged him softly to sit, but he picked up a shovel and slowly began to fill in the small grave. 

By the time the two of them had finished, the moon was well in the sky and they were both coated in cold sweat, more from grief and anguish more than anything else. As the last sprinkling of dirt fell into place, Jamie dropped once more to his knees in the grass, his filthy hands lying upturned in his lap. 

He watched his fingertips begin to shake, and then it rippled up his arms and into his shoulders, grasping him until his teeth rattled and he couldn’t see straight. He was vaguely aware of Ian unceremoniously dropping down to the earth next to him, uncaring of his wooden leg, and then a pair of strong arms locked around his shoulders and his brother in law drew his head down to his shoulder, murmuring soothingly. 

For the second time of many, Jamie wept bitterly, and even the immortality of the stars above seemed to shy away from his pain. 


	3. Part Three

By the time Jamie managed to drag himself bonelessly back into the house, the sky was blushing with the early signs of dawn, and a chorus of birds greeted the sun as she woke up, blissfully oblivious to the loss the night had seen. Listening to them, Jamie wanted to cry all over again. He wanted to yell and throw things and make them stop. Most of all, he wanted to sleep. He wanted to lay down and close his eyes and pray to whatever cruel God existed that he would wake up in the morning to find this had all been some horrible dream. 

The dirt under his nails suggested otherwise. 

Sometime long after they buried her, Ian had all but carried Jamie inside and deposited him as carefully as possible at the kitchen table, and Jenny had sheepishly draped a blanket over his shoulders and pressed a warm cup of something into his hands. It had long since gone cold, and his hands were stiff and trembled ever so slightly. With a feeling like his bones were breaking, he pried them off of the cup and dropped them into fists in his lap, stretching out his fingers as best he could, though that only made them shake more. 

He could see Jenny fidget nervously from the corner of his eye where she sat on the other side of the table, wringing her hands over her own swollen belly. He spared a glance at her face, which was streaked with tears, eyes red and cheeks flushed from her own mourning. 

“Jamie-” she started again, for what must have been the seven hundredth time that night. Every so often she would say his name, mouth working for words, and then fall quiet, the tension radiating off her in waves. At one point, she reached a hand out and touched his arm, but immediately reeled back as if she had been burned. 

“How is she?” His voice sounded alien in his ears, hoarse and cracking. He cleared his throat weakly and tried again, his mouth like cotton. “How-” His voice broke again and he slammed a palm down on the table in frustration, teeth bared, and Jenny gave a start, eyes blown wide open.

After a moment, she reached her hand out to cover his, and Jamie bowed his head to take a shaky breath, deflating slightly. “She needs ye,” Jenny whispered cautiously, her hand still warm on his, and Jamie’s eyes stung as fresh tears welled up once more. 

He managed the faintest of nods, drew his hand out from beneath hers, and slowly made his way to the stairs. His feet might have weighed ten stone for as hard as it was for him to move, and he clutched the banister for support as he fought his way upstairs. 

Claire had been moved from their bedroom, and the door hung open ever so slightly, the room dark as sin. Jamie tried to suppress a shudder as he passed it, but doubled over against the wall within a few steps, heaving harshly. Nothing came up, and he sank to his knees, bracing himself against the wall, head throbbing. He sat there for a small eternity, gasping like a fish, and then pushed himself back to his feet, one hand outstretched to support himself as he made his way to the open door at the end of the hallway. This door too was slightly open, but the light of a single candle danced along the floorboards in greeting as he approached, and welcomed him as he stepped inside and shut out the world behind him. 

The curtains on the windows had been drawn, fending away the coming sunlight, and the drapes on the four-poster bed had been partially closed as well. He could just make out Claire’s form curled up in the bed, and the lump in his throat seemed to grow. Carefully, he toed out of his boots and drifted to the bed, sitting down on the edge gently. He sat, teetering for a moment, but Claire didn’t move or speak, and he was too exhausted to stay upright, so he collapsed onto the pillows, staring up at the ceiling even though his eyes seared. 

Neither spoke for what might have been hours, and Claire only moved when Jamie reached out to touch his knuckles to her back. Her shoulders tightened immediately and she went rigid, even the sound of her breathing momentarily pausing as she froze. He felt the energy come off her in a direct shock up his arm and recoiled with a pang in his chest, his stomach turning in on itself. He whispered her name weakly, but it was as if he wasn’t even there, and he turned on his side as well to try and rest. 

He drifted in and out of consciousness, but only managed to really fall asleep sometime later when the bed shifted and Claire scooted closer, hesitantly pressing her back up against his. 

* * *

 

Claire spoke little in the days following the death of their daughter, and ate even less. It was a miracle she even drank anything. She seemed compelled to join her child in the grave, and Jamie couldn’t say he blamed her. 

The week just after Brigid died was one of the worst of his own life. The days were long, and he spent them slogging away with whatever mundane tasks he could get his hands on, doing anything to keep himself from slowing down, from giving his mind a chance to catch up with him. For the most part, he managed to keep busy, though he could never quite escape the shadow lurking at the edge of his consciousness. 

The evenings were easy. He stumbled into the house at whatever godforsaken hour he saw fit, and collapsed into bed in an unceremonious heap, sleep claiming him immediately and ushering him into the coma that comes with true, bone-deep exhaustion. 

It was the mornings that were the hardest, when he woke to the sounds of birds outside and the smell of life in the air. It was then that he was unable to escape reality, and it came crashing down around him like the bricks of some old broken house, leaving him buried in the rubble. 

He couldn’t say he blamed Claire at all.

But it was becoming increasingly evident that her condition was rapidly deteriorating. Her face had become taut and drawn, the delicate angle of cheek and brow stark and harsh in contrast to their normal grace, and when Jamie touched her, he could feel the bones beneath her skin, delicate as those of a fledgling bird beneath his hands. 

She was dying, and she was intent on letting it happen.

When his brother William had died, Jamie had been much the same way. At first, it had been shock that kept him from moving or speaking. He would wake up the first few mornings and roll over, expecting to see the sheets on his brother’s bed turned back, but where the indentation of his head would normally adorn his pillow there was only dust. And then it was anger, anger at the world, at his parents, at God for taking his brother, at Willie himself for going and dying. He became a spiteful child, and it was the spite that paralyzed him. 

He must have lost a stone in the days after they buried him. Eventually, it was his father that reached into the darkness and plucked him out, one stubborn Fraser against another. It was a memory Jamie remembered vividly; it had been an early morning and his sister had tried, and failed, to get him to take something to eat. Frustrated, Jamie had overturned the tray of food and Jenny had brought, leaving the porridge splattered across the floor. It couldn’t have been more than a quarter of an hour before Brian Fraser had come into the room, pulled Jamie up by the collar of his shirt and dragged him outside. 

At first, the sunlight had been blinding, and Jamie had dug his heels into the ground, eyes screwed shut and both hands wrapped around his father’s wrist, desperately trying to get him to let go, but he had been far too weak to put up a fight, and collapsed some few feet away from the front door, letting his father half drag him the rest of the way to his brother’s grave. 

Brian had set him on his feet in front of the small, makeshift headstone - which was, in reality, just a small pile of rocks haphazardly stacked into a makeshift cairn - and had grabbed onto his shoulders, holding Jamie up. The dirt on his brother’s grave had still been freshly turned, not yet covered with grass, not yet accustomed to Willie’s death. Jamie distinctly remembered seeing a small, writhing worm burrow through the damp dirt, and had been momentarily filled with rage. 

“I ken ye hurt,  _ mo bhalach,  _ but he’s gone, and there’s no’ ye can do but accept it, aye? Ye cannae bring him back, Jamie.” His father’s voice had been warm, perhaps warmer than Jamie had ever heard it, and then the large hands had dropped away from his shoulders, and the two stood side by side, looking down at the grave, for what might have been hours. 

Jamie wasn’t sure whether it was the reality of seeing the grave, or simply the passage of time, but he had healed after that, to the extent of his ability. Slowly, he had begun to eat and put on weight, venture out of the house with Ian, act like himself. 

He had seen Willie’s body when it happened, just as Claire had seen Brigid’s, but there is a certain sickness about death that masks itself as sleep. It is far too easy to pretend death is nonexistent when there’s no garish, disgusting evidence of it. 

He slipped into the room sometime in the early evening, to find Claire, surprisingly, standing by the window. She had picked up a small shawl and wrapped it around the narrow frame of her shoulders, but Jamie could see that she was still trembling in the cool of the night air. She heard him close the door behind him and seemed to draw into herself, hugging her arms closer around herself. 

He stood for a moment watching her. Her shift was thin, despite the chill in the air, and nearly translucent in what little light was left as the sun dipped below the horizon. Beneath the chemise, he could see the prominent bones of hip and shoulder, the slender curve of her waist now gone almost to the point of being sharp. A brief pang of fear went through him. She looked as if she would blow away, shatter into a million little pieces with just the right gust of wind. 

Hesitantly, he crossed the floor to stand near her shoulder, not saying a word. She tensed beside him but didn’t draw away this time, and he reached a hand out to touch her back. Beneath his palm, he could feel the curve of her spine and the shell of her scapula and had to resist the urge to wince. She made a small noise in the back of her throat like she had been burned, but shifted ever so slightly closer to him. Her skin was cold, and he heard her teeth clack together once. Briefly, he wondered if she drew near to him simply out of the necessity of warmth, not comfort.

Following his previous line of thought, he ran his hand up and down her back, trying to rub some warmth back into her, and felt some of the tension go out of her shoulders. They stood that way for a few silent minutes, the few inches between them a yawning chasm, and Jamie pursed his lips. 

“I’ve something ta show ye, Claire.” His voice shattered the silence like a rock through glass, and he winced momentarily as Claire stepped away from him. 

“I don’t want to see it,” she rasped, her voice gone rusty from the silence, and he watched her fumble with the shall for a few moments, as if unsure what to do with it. 

“A walk then,  _ mo ghraidh,  _ the fresh air will do ye good.” 

She drew in a breath and swelled up like she was going to argue again, but set her jaw and walked round the bed to step into her shoes and pick up her cloak from a nearby chair. She didn’t say a word as she clasped it around her throat, but turned to look at him, and gingerly put one hand in the crook of his arm as he stepped over. 

Outside, the wind greeted them with the sounds of frogs and crickets, and from somewhere distant the sweet smell of fruit. It was significantly cooler than the house, and Jamie felt Claire shiver beside him. He gave her hand a small squeeze and set off down the winding stone path that snaked from behind the house into the fields. 

They reached the small, babbling stream that crisscrossed the property, winding in loops through the hills, and Jamie turned left, towards the weeping silhouette of a willow.  _ Fitting,  _ he thought briefly. Beside him, Claire planted her feet. 

“No.” 

He stopped as well, looking down at her, and sighed. “Ye need ta see it, Claire.” He slid his hand up past her elbow as he felt her begin to shake, her eyes wide. 

“I said no, Jamie, please.” Her chin trembled, and he thought he heard his heart break, neat and clean like the snapping stem of a flower. 

Reluctantly, he pressed forward, and Claire followed almost willingly, despite her quiet protestations and the hitch in her breath. As they drew nearer, her panic began to rise. He could hear her breathing pick up pace, and felt the tension shoot through her like a shock. 

Someone had laid a small bouquet of white ginger lilies on the upturned earth, and a small pile of rocks had been meticulously laid where one day a more permanent marker would sit. 

Claire broke. 

She whirled around and flung herself at his chest, sobbing and beating weakly at him with her palms, and he reached to grasp her wrists, stilling her hands. She struggled for a few moments, and then the energy went out of her, and she collapsed against him, now and then thumping him halfheartedly.  He brought his arms up around her shoulders, holding her against him as her body gave way and she nudged her face into the crook of his shoulder, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt. Neither said a word, but Jamie blinked up at the sky harshly, trying to push back the stinging in his own eyes.

Eventually, Claire carefully drew away from him, though she kept an iron grip on his hand, and turned to face the grave once again. She hiccupped wetly, and then dropped down to her knees, and Jamie mirrored her. She touched once the flowers, the small pile of rocks, and the dirt, wet with dew, almost ritualistically. Her hands shook, but her crying gradually subsided to sniffling aftershocks, and she leaned into Jamie as he pulled her to his chest, both her hands coming up to hold onto his arm as he leaned his face into the top of her hair. 

Eventually, Jamie moved to sit next to her in the grass, and they stayed locked together, each in some way holding the other up, until the last flush of sun gave way to the full richness of night. 


	4. Part Four

To say that things were alright after that would have been a lie, but they were better; at least as much as they could be. Claire took to food and drink again, and ventured tentatively around the house as the days passed, busying herself with whatever was available. She went back to the grave often, every day in the beginning, and for as much pain as it caused, Jamie suspected it did her some sort of good. 

He never went back. 

He passed the grave often, heading out into the fields to work, or even just walking on a cool evening, but he made sure always to steer clear of the sight of that makeshift cairn. It was something he had vowed the night he had buried Brigid, and a vow he had broken only for the sake of saving his wife, but now that they seemed to be mending themselves, he never wanted to see the damnable thing again.

He spared a glance in the general direction now, watching the limbs of the willow tree sway for a moment in the breeze, and crossed himself involuntarily. 

While Claire coped by occupying her mind, pouring over her medicine box and notes she had jotted down, Jamie distracted himself in more physical ways. He spent most of his days out in the fields, doing what he could to keep his hands, and thus his mind, busy. Consequently, when the end evening rolled around, he was passed pleasantly exhausted, and capable of little more than basic trains of thought. Tonight was no different. 

He stepped into the bedroom and set down his belt with a small thud, stifling a yawn. Claire looked up briefly from where she was perched on the window sill, a book in hand and her lip clasped between her teeth, and managed a small twitch of a smile in his direction. He gave her one in return, and her eyes lit briefly. For just a moment, she looked like herself again. It made a small lump rise suddenly in the back of Jamie’s throat, and he turned his head away. 

She had been getting better, that much was evident. Her face was still narrower than usual, and the bones of hand and shoulder stood out prominent beneath ivory skin, but the pallor in her face had seemed to fade, replaced again with a more suitable flush of life. She seemed to be healing, at least physically, but there was a look in her eyes that troubled him deeply. It was something foreign and unfamiliar, this unrequited pain of a mother without a child, and it disquieted his spirit to wonder what was going on in her head. 

Wanting suddenly to get as far away from the topic of childless mothers as possible, he stepped over to stand next to Claire, dropping a quick kiss on the crown of her head. “What are ye reading tonight, Sassenach?” He moved away to begin undressing and settling down for the night, but spared a glance over his shoulder as she swung her legs down and closed the book, which sported a plain leather cover. 

“Shakespeare’s  _ Romeo and Juliet.  _ Ned Gowan sent it, along with a few small articles and things on medicinals. Jenny had one of the staff fetch it up to me earlier in the afternoon.” She set the book down on the small table housing her box and tools, and folded her arms, turning to watch him. “Now that you know that I spent my afternoon in  _ fair Verona,  _ where were you all day? I didn’t even see you at lunch.” 

“Hmm? Oh, I was out in the fields wi’ Ian and some o’ the men again. There was a problem with the wheels on one of the wagons, so we had to stop and fix it and the tilling ran late.” He spared a glance out the window into the front path, where the tool in question sat, waiting for further repair, and shrugged as he undid the buttons on his sleeves. “ _ He that is stricken blind cannot forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost.  _ Ye dinna realize how much the damned thing makes the going quicker til ye’ve one wheel stuck in the mud and the other wi’ broken spokes.”

Claire’s face split momentarily into a true smile, and she arched one eyebrow, crossing the room to step into his arms as he shrugged out of his shirt. “I didn’t know you read Shakespeare.”

Jamie smiled as well, and settled his arms around her shoulders. “Och, well, I did go to school once. We had a headmaster who insisted we ought to. Ye can ask Ian about it. I dinna think any other kid we’d ever met had heard o’ it, let alone read it, and there we were.”

Claire gave a small hum, leaning her cheek against his chest, still warm and ruddy from the sun. “A regular Romeo and his Mercutio.” Jamie gave a derisive snort, and she smiled, stepping away from him to go about her own evening preparations. “Have you eaten?”

“Aye, Mrs. Crook gave me a bite to eat when I came inside.” He tugged on a clean linen shirt for sleeping with another tremendous yawn, and stretched so that the bones in his lower back popped pleasantly and his knuckles brushed the smoke-darkened beams of the ceiling. “Christ, I’m tired.” He dropped unceremoniously on the bed, facedown in the pillow, with a small groan. 

“I’m sure,” Claire remarked, finishing running a brush through her hair before coming over to get in bed as well. She leaned to blow out the candle, and then scooted down beneath the sheets, gravitating towards Jamie for the sake of sharing body heat. He rolled slightly onto his side, allowing her to tuck herself up under him, and sighed pleasantly, burying his nose in her hair. 

“ _ Tha gaol agam ort, Sassenach. _ ” He felt one hand tighten in his shirtfront. 

* * *

There seemed to come with each new day a sort of tense unease, bordering on awkwardness. It was evident, of course, from where it came. Jenny, still very much pregnant, did her best to avoid Claire, but the crossing of paths throughout the day was inevitable. The entire household seemed to be a ticking time bomb, a live nerve ending, exposed and quivering. One touch, and the whole body would be cast into chaos. As a result, everyone seemed to be perpetually tiptoeing around one another. For the time being, it worked well enough, but in just a few short weeks Jenny’s bairn would be born, and Jamie knew there would be no avoiding the pain then. 

To Castle Leoch then, he had decided. They would spend the next few months here, with Jamie helping to finish the early summer harvesting. By the time Jenny gave birth, he hoped Claire would be able, and willing, to offer what help she could, and then the two would be on their way. He hated to leave, of course, but the pain of being around a newborn so soon after they had lost their own child would be too much for either of them to stomach staying at Lallybroch. 

He glanced unconsciously back at the bed where Claire lay, curled on his half of the bed and still sound asleep. Would she agree, he wondered, to leave so soon after they had begun to make a life for themselves among his family and people? Likely she would understand his desire to go, but there was also an equal chance that she would swallow her own discomfort to stay and help his sister, the oath she had taken as a healer stronger even than her own inhibitions. He had seen it before. 

She stirred, stretching herself out on the sheets, and her shift fell off one shoulder, exposing the pale expanse of neck and breast, and doing well to catch his attention. His cock twitched in response, and Jamie swallowed, standing and gathering his things for the day. They had not been intimate since before Brigid’s birth, and his balls ached something wretched for it, to say nothing of his heart. He longed to be with her again, though he had made no advances towards Claire, not wanting to hurt her, nor press her beyond her limits. She, in turn, had made no moves towards him either. While the need to draw strength from one another after they lost the child had fostered some healing between them, Jamie still did not know the extent to which their relationship had been damaged, nor yet when - or if - they would be able to mend it. 

Claire stirred further as he finished securing his belt and dirk around his waist, and sat up in bed now, watching him despite still being half asleep. “Morning,” she murmured, blinking lazily and catlike, gold eyes flashing. 

“Mmm, good morning, Sassenach,” he smiled, coming over to stoop and press a kiss to her head. She reached up to cup her hand to his cheek and hummed pleasantly as he drew back. 

“How did you sleep?”

He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, smiling. “Och, like-” he stopped abruptly, swallowing down the  _ like the dead  _ that so naturally came to him, and frowned. “Like a cow that’s got his head in the keg, aye? I dinna think a stampede o’ horses coulda roused me.” 

Claire chuckled slightly at that, swinging her legs out of bed. “Hm, I’m inclined to agree. I thought I’d have to fetch Ian and one of the lads to get you up for breakfast.”

“Well, I can assure ye I am fully restored to consciousness,  _ mo ghraidh,  _ though I do wish I didna have ta be going so soon. Ne’ertheless, the wagon will no’ be fixing itself.” He reached to finish tying his stock at his throat, and glanced out the window, catching sight briefly of Ian’s head, already bent to look at the axis. 

“Right, on with you, then. Wouldn’t want to miss all the fun.” She flashed him another smile as he slipped out the door, and something in Jamie’s belly squirmed.    
  


Wee Katherine Murray was born a month later, pink-faced and screaming. Her arrival was, on the whole, greeted with an air of celebration by the tenants of Lallybroch, desperate for a bit of happiness after the learned death of the Laird and Lady’s only child. Beneath the general atmosphere of cheer and wishes of good health, however, there was still the underlying sensation of nervousness. Jamie could see it in Mrs. Crook’s face, in the way Ian carefully schooled his excitement when around him. Jenny especially worked vigilantly to keep the joys of motherhood confined to privacy. 

The gesture did not go unnoticed, though it was not entirely appreciated by the intended party. 

“God, they act like- like-” Claire curled her hands into fists, beating them on the table in frustration. “Like we’ll both keel over if they so much as breathe around us! Dammit, we lost our baby, not our fucking minds!” She huffed in annoyance and stood up, pacing, arms locked across her chest. 

Jamie sat on the bed, elbows on his knees, and watched her with a small sigh, opening his mouth as if to speak, but Claire continued on. 

“Did you know your sister didn’t even want me to  _ touch  _ the baby after she was born? I could see it on her face! She didn’t think I should even be in the room, and then was making eyes at the midwife the entire time, trying to get her to shoo me away like some pestering fly!” She whirled, throwing her hands into the air in exasperation, and shot a fiery glance at the door, chest heaving. “And what if something had happened? If there had been some complication? Would she have insisted I leave the room then? The nerve of that woman!” Exhausted, she dropped down on the bed next to him, muttering under her breath. 

Jamie’s mouth twitched, a muscle in his jaw jumping, and he reached out a hand to rub her back gently. “I ken it, Sassenach,” he murmured, though his words had the opposite of the desired effect. Claire stiffened. 

“Oh, you know, do you?” She stood up again, letting his hand thump back to the bed, and angrily stomped back and forth. “You know what it’s like? To have people treat you like you’ll break if they so much as look at you?” He arched one eyebrow, and she huffed, deflating. “Right,” she swallowed, remembering back to the events of the winter, “sorry,” she breathed, coming back over to sit down again. “I just-” she let her hands fall into her lap, scowling intensely. “I’m sick and tired of being doted on. I’m fine,  _ really.  _ I’m not going to go insane. You should see how everyone winces the second the baby makes any noise.” Some of the fight seemed to have gone out of her, and she leaned against Jamie’s side. “Poor little Kitty, being ignored by everyone. She can’t understand it.” 

Jamie settled his arm around her shoulders, his thumb rubbing her skin absently, and rested his cheek against the top of her head, taking a deep breath. “They mean well, but they’re maybe no’ going about it the right way.” Claire just ‘harrumphed’ in agreement. 

“I mean, really, Jamie. I wish they’d all just act normal. They don’t have to make it so bloody obvious that they pity us.” She had taken up a fold of his kilt, pleating it back and forth between her fingers nervously, and sniffed once, trying to keep her composure. 

Somewhere in his chest, Jamie’s heart tightened, and he shifted to gather her more firmly into his arms. She dissolved into quiet tears, sniffling now and again as her nose and eyes watered, and pressed her face into his shoulder, hands curling now in the front of his jacket. They had come up to the bedroom after a particularly awkward supper that ended in Katherine fussing over a wet diaper and Jenny urgently shushing her and casting sidelong glances at both him and Claire. She had undressed, feverish with anger, and he had sat and watched, not bothering to take off his own clothes from the day. 

He rubbed a hand down her back comfortingly, murmuring soft, soothing things in Gaelic, and Claire eventually subsided, lifting her head but not drawing back from the warmth of his embrace. He looked down at her, eyebrows furrowed, and she sniffed once with finality, nodding her head as she wiped at her nose. “I’m alright,” she said after a moment, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes. “I’m alright. Let’s just go to bed.” 

* * *

She reached out for him some time during the night, hurt and lonely and seeking to be made whole, and he made love to her tenderly but thoroughly, a potter carefully reshaping, molding her like clay until she took life beneath his hands. In the end, she arched against him, gasping, and he felt the thrum of her heartbeat around and in him, pulsing through his veins until it reached his own heart. They lay trembling, breathing in tandem, and their souls conversed under the cover of night as the wounds of the last two months bled freely, and then began to heal. 


	5. Part Five

“Jamie?”   
  
He blinked hard, coming back to reality, and cleared his throat in an interrogative gesture of acknowledgment. “Mm?”   


“Be a dear and pass me that jar, would you?” Claire murmured, extending one delicate hand, palm up, without taking her eyes off the item she was examining. She had a small dish set up beneath a rather large magnifying glass; a makeshift microscope, she had called it. Good for viewing big things, but none of the wee germs she often talked about. 

Obediently, he reached to pick up the jar she had gestured towards, and made a disgusted noise of revulsion as he came face to face with its contents. “Jesus Christ, Sassenach, what in seven hells is that?” He wrinkled his nose and passed her the jar hastily, wanting it out of his hands. 

“Worms!” She chirped cheerfully, with, GOD, was that  _ pride _ ? “I found some parasitic maggots on a squirrel carcass the other day, which is what you have in that jar there, and I’ve found just the sort here now-” she inclined her head to the microscope as she unscrewed the jar and neatly deposited her new additions “-so they’re going to need a place to stay.” 

He gagged. “Ye dinna- what I mean is- well, Claire, ye canna be meaning ta  _ keep  _ the filthy buggers?” He shuddered again, casting a dirty look towards the jar, where a series of long, stringy worms and fat little maggots writhed around on a chunk of browning meat. 

“Why, of course I do.” Claire sat back, wiped her hands on her apron, and blew out the candle she had lit beneath the platform of the small microscope she had made. “The worms themselves are rather useless, medicinally, but their larvae can be used to treat necrotic wounds. They’re excellent at removing the dead flesh.” She lifted her face with a smile in time to see Jamie pull one of horror, and she grimaced. “Right, sorry,” she offered, though he caught her hiding a chuckle as he turned and gagged into his fist, and vaguely thought he heard her whisper  _ ‘drama queen.’  _

After a moment, he steeled himself and sat back down on the table he had been perched on, feeling a little green, but thoroughly restored as she moved the container of insects onto a dark shelf in the corner. He watched her as she went, a small smile on his lips. Her hair was perched in a pile of messy curls and flyaway hairs on the top of her head, and her smock had been dirtied with whatever she had been working with all day; smears of juice from different plants, dirt, the odd small spatter of blood here and there. He leaned back on his hands and sighed. 

She no longer bore the gentle curves of motherhood, but her hips sat differently now, and her breasts were a new kind of full. It made his heart ache momentarily, still not accustomed to the loss of their child. It hit him sometimes, swift and hard and merciless, and his throat momentarily closed up. 

Their stay at Castle Leoch had been good for them. They had been welcomed with open arms and open hearts, and had settled nicely into their respective tasks around the castle, but the wounds that Brigid had left in their souls were still gaping and empty, with the distraction of the Mackenzie Clan as little more than a superficial bandage. They generally avoided talk of their daughter when at all possible, but sometimes the reminders were inevitable. 

Like the day a young woman had come seeking Claire’s help with late-term bleeding, or the constant patter of children’s feet in the yard. But the worst, by far, had been the day that one of the older women had narrowly eyed Claire’s waistline, nodded her approval, and asked in an  _ oh so charming  _ voice when they planned on continuing the next branch of the Fraser family tree.

“Oh, ye’ve been marrit nigh on a year now, have ye no?” She had asked, heedless of Jamie’s cold warning look or the frantic shake of his head. “Have ye been trying? Surely a woman such as you would have something to, umph,  _ aid  _ with the process, no?” She had leaned conspiratorially forward, and then arched her eyebrows. “Or is one of ye, mmph,  _ incapable _ ?” 

Claire had broken into sobs, hurled the small pestle she had been grinding willow bark with against the wall, and crumpled in a mess on the floor of her own surgery. Jamie had promptly, aggressively, sent the naive old woman on her way and tended to his wife, who took days to recover from the incident, like a bandage ripped off too fast once the wound’s begun to heal around it, fibers stuck in the newly formed scab. 

After that, everyone around the castle had keenly avoided the topic of children and motherhood when around the pair. 

“What are you thinking about?” Claire’s voice broke into his train of thought, and he looked up at her, blinking to clear his mind. “And don’t try to say nothing, because I can see the look on your face and I can practically  _ smell  _ the smoke.” She smiled a bit, but then frowned at what must have been the expression on his face. “Are you feeling alright, love?” She asked softly, stepping across the room to step between his legs and press her lips to his forehead. “You don’t look very well.” 

He sighed, reaching out one hand to wrap his fingers lightly around her wrist, and forcing a smile. “Aye, just tired is all, my Sassenach. Are ye almost done here?” 

Claire pursed her lips and nodded slightly, brushing her hands idly on her apron as she turned to tinker with some things in her cabinet. “Yes,” she breathed, and the room lapsed into silence. Then, after a moment, she turned to look at him, leaning against her exam bench. “It’s her you’re thinking about, isn’t it?” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and her honey eyes wavered. 

Jamie let his breath out in a rush, and hung his head. “Aye,” he breathed. “It’s always her.” He looked down at his hands, calloused and cracked and lying limp in his lap, and curled them into fists, wiping a spot of dried blood with a corner of his plaid. When he looked up next, Claire was standing with her back to him, holding something in front of her. She sighed and he thought he saw the tension go out of her. Gently, she set the small jar she had been holding down on the counter and turned to look at him. Her eyes were shining, but for the first time, she hadn’t broken down crying at the mere mention of their stillborn daughter. 

Slowly, she crossed the room to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, drawing his head down into the crook of her neck. Neither one said a word, and his arms came up to wrap loosely around her waist, both of them just breathing. One of Claire’s hands came up to smooth over Jamie’s hair after a moment, and he half nodded against her shoulder, a sigh running through him.

* * *

 

That night, they lay quietly in bed watching the moonlight dance across the floorboards. A small fire had been smoored in the hearth and the room was pleasantly warm and smokey, one of the shutters cracked to let in a little cool air, which Jamie always liked. He tended to always burn up like a furnace, and Claire would wake some nights to find him having flung all the covers off, or standing by the window letting the cool air prickle across his heated skin. After their marriage, sleeping next to another warm body had always made his temperature spike, and so they had settled on an arrangement: as long as the room was warm when they went to bed he could crack the window, that way, he wouldn’t swelter and Claire wouldn’t be cold. 

As it was, Jamie had been drifting in and out of sleep for somewhere around an hour, one arm draped lazily over Claire’s waist as he held her, his hand tucked up under her shift and against the warm skin of her belly. She covered his hand with her own, threading their fingers together and listening to the quiet changes in his breathing. 

After a bit, when she could feel he was awake again, she turned in his arms, surprised to find his eyes open and shiny in the dark of the night, so dark a blue as to nearly be black. She reached out one hand to touch her fingertips to his cheek and sighed softly, tucking herself more comfortably against his chest. The hand that had been resting on her stomach slid down to grasp her ass familiarly, anchoring the two of them. 

“Jamie?” she asked softly, tucking her face against his collarbone, breathing in the smell of him. She could never quite place her finger on what  _ he  _ smelled like. Some days it was obvious, of course, horses or the woods or even blood, but beneath what his day was like, there was an underlying smell that was always just  _ Jamie _ . It was, if she had to try and describe it, like wet heather and musk and sunshine, and just a touch of steel. It was intimately comforting, and she took a deep breath now, one hand splayed on his chest, feeling his  _ pectoralis major  _ ripple as he adjusted his arm around her. 

“Mmph? Are ye alright?” His voice was rough with sleep and he peered at her out of the corner of lidded eyes, his long lashes brushing his cheeks. 

She nodded a bit and drew back to look up at him, one hand cupping his cheek, thumb rasping over the day’s stubble. “Yes, yes I’m fine,” she said softly, biting her lip for a moment as she thought. “I want to ask you something, or - I don’t know if it’s a question, really, it’s just that I want you to be honest with me-” she pressed her hand harder against his chest, feeling his heart speed up against her palm “-and with yourself.” She looked up at him and he wore the most peculiar expression, face calm and eyes wild with thought. “Could you do that?”

“Aye.”

Claire took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and moved away from him ever so slightly, her legs still twined with his but her head resting on her own pillow so she could see his face. A moment of silence stretched between them, impossibly long, and she reached out to grasp his hand. “After, when Brigid-” her voice cracked and she saw his pulse throb in his throat, but steeled herself and continued, clearing her throat softly, “-when Brigid died, you spent so long looking after me, Jamie, and you were so, so good,” she moved her hand once more to lovingly cup his cheek, his eyes dry and locked on hers, “but I never saw you mourn her.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and she swallowed, licking her suddenly dry lips. “I just, it’s only I wonder sometimes if you feel like you were so busy taking care of me you never got to say goodbye to her.” Her voice cracked and she took a moment, screwing her eyes shut to hold back tears and placing her fingertips against Jamie’s lips to stop him from speaking. His breath came warm against her fingers, and steady, and when her eyes were finally dry and she opened them, his were wet. “Do you need to cry for her?” She whispered. 

It took him what seemed like a very long time to answer, the column of his throat moving slowly. “I do,” he rasped, “cry for her, I mean. Nearly every day since.” And the conviction in his voice was strong enough to break Claire’s heart. She nodded, tight-lipped, and sniffled. 

“It’s only, Jamie, do you need to cry here, with me? Do you need  _ me _ to take care of  _ you _ ? She’s your daughter too.” 

The change happened slowly, barely noticeable in the dark of the bedroom, but Claire saw his full lower lip tremble and caught the glistening of moonlight off tears on his cheek. He didn’t make any move to be closer to her, and his chest began to rise and fall more rapidly as his breathing picked up, becoming shallow. “Oh, my darling,” Claire whispered, and drew him to her. His arms came shaking up around her back and he pressed his face into her shoulder. 

And for the second time in his life, James Fraser went thoroughly and completely to pieces. 


	6. Part Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! thank you for reading! i just wanted you all to note that this chapter takes place a year after the last chapter. this is because i didn't want to bog you guys down with a lot of boring crap, and figured it would be better to get right into the action. don't worry though! we'll still get plenty of angsty bonding from these two - they'll never really be over brigid, and we'll see that continue to pop up  
> enjoy!  
> xoxo

_Castle Leoch, Summer 1745_

“It’s getting a wee bit uncomfortable around here for my taste,” Murtagh muttered, finishing relieving himself against a tree and jostling his kilt back into place. He glanced over at Jamie, who was similarly making himself orderly, and folded his arms. “We should go. Ye dinna want tae get caught ‘tween Colum and Dougal if they’ve their minds set apart.”

Jamie sighed, wiping his hands on his coat and folding his arms, turning to look out over a small pasture of milling sheep. “Aye, I know.” Over the last few months, tension in Castle Leoch had skyrocketed to an all time high. When he and Claire had arrived the previous spring, there had been the murmurings of a division between the Mackenzie chief and the war chief, but everything had come to a head much quicker than Jamie liked. Rather than murmurings, there was now flat out talk of Dougal’s support for the Bonnie Prince Charlie, and some of the men had even begun to declare themselves along with him. To Jamie, it felt as if he were perched on a ledge. Below him, rocks and churning waters lie waiting, and at his back some great beast crept closer and closer. He could feel its hot breath on his neck. Jump, or turn and fight? Had this been the issue a few years prior, he would have known his answer immediately, but he had Claire to worry about now, and the decision was not one that came lightly.

“So, what say ye? Why not home to Lallybroch?” Murtagh’s thick brows were furrowed, and he chewed pensively on his moustache.

Jamie shook his head, hands dropping to his sides. “And risk having Ian and Jenny, not ta mention all the tenants, brought into it? Pick sides and have the British hate them or the rest o’ the Scots? No, I dinna think so. I’m still Laird, and it’s my job to protect them. Going home would do naught but make things worse.”

Murtagh grunted a little, running a hand along his chin as the two began to walk back down towards the Castle. “Aye, well enough. What about just going then? We could live on the road, we’ve done it before. It wouldnae be hard.”

While he was, to a degree, right, Jamie snorted and shook his head, curls bouncing. “Would ye have me sleeping beneath a tree with my _wife_ come winter?” His tone was in jest, but his eyes were dull and far-off. “I promised to protect her as well, make sure she has food, a bed to sleep. I’ll no go back on that either. Besides, thing have been good for us here. After Brigid,” he paused, “well, I’m no’ quick to uproot us again.”

He thought he heard Murtgah mutter something about married life making him soft, but his godfather nodded and clapped his shoulder briefly. “I ken it, laddie. I was there. But ye canna be thinking a bed o’ snakes to be safer than a bed o’ grass, hmph? Ye must make the decision before it’s too late, Jamie.” He gave him a pointed look and Jamie sighed, running a hand down his face.

“I hear ye, _a charaid_. I’ll talk it o’er with Claire, aye? I dinna think we need worry just yet.” But even as he offered Murtagh a smile and they fell into step on the road back to the castle, he wondered how much of what he said was true. How much time did they have? And would it be enough?

* * *

 Claire looked up as Jamie entered the room with a smile, bent over the washbasin and running her wet hands through her hair. She wore a thin shift and had the shutters open to admit some of the cool night air. “Long day?” She asked, twisting her curls up into a bun as he shrugged out of his coat, offering her a smile in return as he hung it up.

“Oh, aye. I’m proper sore but no worse for wear than last ye saw me.” He toed off his boots and set them down as well, pausing to give Claire a quick kiss as he crossed to the washbasin to take his turn wiping some of the dirt from the day off his arms and face. “And you, my Sassenach? How was your day?”

“Oh, not terribly exciting, I’m afraid,” she said, setting a clean nightshirt on the bed for him. “One of the young boys got hit in the head with a rock while they were playing down by the river and needed a few stitches above his eye. He should heal up nicely. Other than that it was mostly runny noses and runny asses, if you can believe it.”

Jamie chuckled, holding his head over the basin to pour water from the ewer over his hair. When he was done, he shook like a dog and finished getting ready for the night, tugging the clean shirt she had laid out for him on. “Oh, aye. Seems everyone has a cold or a stomach bug. I blame the neeps Mrs. Fitz has been cooking, but dinna tell her I told ye that.”

“Careful,” Claire laughed, going to close the shutters in hopes of keeping out bugs and bats while they slept. “If she hears you’re talking bad about all her hard work you’ll get nothing but scraps for your dinner and she’ll likely beat you with the wooden spoon.” She stooped to blow out the candle on the table and climbed into next to Jamie, scooting down beneath the covers to lie with him. “When I went down for dinner she told me she sent one of the boys down to the fields with some food for you and Murtagh. Did you eat?”

Jamie vibrated against her back with a hum of laughter and leaned his nose down into her hair, taking a deep breath. She must have been collecting sage today, he thought: she reeked of it. “Aye, I’m alright.” He paused, wondering if he should bring up the conversation he had with Murtagh, and Claire rolled in his arms to face him, sliding her chilly feet down his legs as she scooted closer, head tilted to look up at his face.

“What’s bothering you?” She asked softly, running a hand through his wet curls. “Something’s been off about you since you came in, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. Is everything alright with Murtagh?”

Jamie sighed and pressed his forehead to hers, rubbing circles in the small of her back. “Everything’s well wi’ the auld fool, it’s just something we were talking about earlier that’s got me thinking.” He closed his eyes for a moment, taking comfort in the gentle scrape of her nails against his scalp, and then opened his eyes and licked his lips, taking a deep breath. “Dougal supports the Jacobites, ye ken that already, and Colum willna pledge his allegiance to the Bonnie Prince.” He paused.

“Yes, of course. I think everyone more or less knows that.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “What else?”

“Well,” Jamie began again. “Ye must have heard the whispers round the castle the last few weeks, folk saying they’ll side wi’ Dougal should it come to it, help raise funds for the Jacobite cause.” Claire nodded. “Dougal’s declared himself outright now, broken the oath he swore to Colum. There’s talk of a mutiny, and people have begun dividing already. Just this afternoon two o’ the men down tending cows got in a fight o’er what we should be doing.”

Claire frowned, her hands stilling in his hair. “Yes, I’d heard rumour of all of this from some of the women earlier, but what do you mean by it? Surely you don’t mean to declare, do you? One way or another?” From the tone in her voice, Jamie took it she already knew what his decision was, and was just waiting for him to voice it.

“No, and there lies the issue o’ it. If I dinna come out and say I’ll stand by Colum, he’ll take my silence as treachery. But if I do come out and support him, I’ll have Dougal and the men who follow him to answer to. Same thing goes for if I declare myself a Jacobite. I canna see an outcome that doesna end wi’ my head on a pike.” He was frowning by now as well, a crease of worry between his brows, and Claire shuddered in his arms, pressing closer to him.

“What are you suggesting we do, then?”

“Murtagh thinks we should leave,” Jamie sighed, “get out and get clear o’ here before everything boils over and we canna avoid leaning one way or another. There still might be time enough that if we leave it willna be seen as taking sides. It would be the best - the _safest_ \- decision.”

Claire leaned back to look at him a bit better, face half shadowed in the dark of the bedroom. “I’m sensing a _but_ here, James Fraser.”

He nodded. “Aye. We can leave, but we canna go back to Lallybroch, no’ wi’ the risk o’ all of this blowing back on Ian and Jenny and the tenants. At least this way we have some time, they have some time, and we can think about what we’re going to do before we declare for one side or the other. Murtagh suggests we live on the road, but I told him that willna do either. Not yet.”

Claire was quiet for a few moments, thinking, and her hand came to rest on Jamie’s chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath her palm. “What about your cousin Jared? You’ve been in contact with him, haven’t you? I’m sure he could give us somewhere to stay until this all blows over.” Her tone was hopeful, but Jamie knew, and so did she, that it would not just be the dispute among the Mackenzie clan that would be the issue: it would soon become the entirety of Scotland dividing and deciding whether or not to support the prince across the sea or remain under British rule.

“Jared would help us, aye, of course, but I dinna see how that option is any better.” Jamie moved to sit up a bit, leaning to light the candle on his bedside table, and Claire propped herself on her elbow, one hand playing with the hem of his shirt as she looked up at him. “Besides, it’s Paris where Charlie’s gathering supporters. To go there could be more dangerous than to stay here.”

“Maybe the French countryside then,” Claire offered, pursing her lips. “We could find somewhere to stay until Culloden gets closer and we have to come back and try to keep Lallybroch safe. You could work on a farm I’m sure, and maybe I could start a practice. I - we could start over, at least for now. We could be safe and _happy_ for the next two years, at least. And who knows. Maybe all of this will work itself out and the men at Lallybroch won’t even need to get involved. If you don’t pledge yourself to the Prince he can’t call upon your men for service. Maybe we just need to stay off the radar, is all?” She looked up at him with a strange look in her eyes, and Jamie sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Aye, maybe,” he said softly. “But I canna think any more on it right now, and worrying willna do either of us any good. Let’s just get some sleep, mm? And we can think about it when it gets closer.” He scooted back down to lay next to Claire, tucking his arm beneath her as she cuddled up against his side, legs entwined with his and her head resting on his chest. “There should be time enough for us to make a plan.”

He felt her nod a little and the room went quiet, but he made no move to blow out the candle and neither one of them fell asleep for a long while.

* * *

“Claire?” Jamie tapped one knuckle on the half open door of the Beaton’s room as he ducked inside, eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room in comparison to the hall.

Claire was bustling over something in the back of the room, and looked up when he came in, turning towards the door. “Yes, just back here. Come in and shut the door behind you.” She didn’t sound like something was wrong, but there was a pinched tone to her voice, and he locked the door quickly, feeling anxious.

“Claire? Are ye alright? The lad who came to fetch me at the stable said to hurry.” He crossed the floor to come stand by her, peering down at the table. There were a few pieces of parchment, typical letters from Ian and Jenny, one from Jared, and a few notes in Claire’s scrawling writing. There was one that caught his eye immediately, set aside from the rest, and he reached for it with suddenly clammy hands, his heart hammering.

“I saw the seal and opened it,” Claire whispered, moving closer to his side. “A man I didn’t recognize brought it in and gave me explicit directions to give it to you.” Her voice was uneasy, and she touched one hand to Jamie’s coat as he unfolded the paper. It bore a simple red wax seal, but there was an insignia on the back that made his skin crawl.

“It’s from Prince Charlie,” he said, his voice sounding odd and far away in his own ears as he began to skim the letter. “It’s thanking those listed below for their support of the Jacobite cause, requesting they gather men to fight.” He stopped reading to glance over at Claire, whose face had gone pale and tight. He kept reading. “He says he’s coming to Scotland. He’s going to try and fight the British.” Beneath the letter were dozens of listed names, supporters.

Jamie’s throat grew tight and he licked his lips, setting the envelope down on the table without a word.

“Jamie?” Claire breathed, and he could hear the fear in her voice.

It had been just over a week since they had talked about leaving Castle Leoch, refraining from declaring for one side or the other. They thought they had time. Apparently, their time had run up, and Jamie wondered briefly if there had actually ever been any chance for them at all, or if time had run out on them long ago.

  
In neat, dark black ink on the bottom of the page, five words sealed their fate: _James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser_.


	7. Part Seven

Jamie’s knees seemed to buckle as he approached the bench near the hearth, his expression slack but lips pressed tight together. His great shoulders sagged, but there was a line of tension that ran through him and made his spine rigid. Claire noticed, almost as an afterthought, that his hands were shaking where they rested between his knees. 

From her place by the table, Claire could see the bold heading at the top of the paper, the watery sunlight coming through the window making the page almost translucent. For a long moment, neither said a word, and then Jamie turned his head to her, the shadows cast on his face making him seem suddenly much older. His eyes were dim and empty, the light gone out of them. “Jesus Claire,” he whispered, and his voice seemed to hang between them like fog. She met his eyes, wishing there was something she could say to comfort him, but then he dropped his face into his hands, fingers knotting into his curls. “What am I to do?” His voice cracked and she saw his shoulders shake, whether with fear or anguish she didn’t know. 

“Oh, Jamie,” she said softly, and crossed the room to wrap her arms around his shoulders. He leaned his head against her belly and his arms came up to snake around her waist, his hands curling into the fabric of her skirts. She felt a tremor run through him and placed a hand on his head, smoothing her hand over his hair. “It’s alright, love. It’ll be alright. You do what needs to be done -  _ we  _ do what needs to be done.” 

His hands tightened on her waist and he sighed, his breath hot against her stomach. “I just wanted to keep us safe.” His voice was half muffled by the fabric of her dress and Claire dragged her fingernails across his scalp, her heart heavy in her chest. “I just wanted us to have a home.” 

“Jamie,” Claire was surprised at the edge in her own voice and moved her hands to his cheeks, lifting his face up so that he looked her in the eyes. He avoided her gaze for a moment and she knelt down, hands still on either side of his face. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, he did. She smoothed her thumbs along his high cheekbones and felt the beginnings of his stubble scrape against her palms. “You have kept us safe,” she said, brushing a curl off his forehead. “Everything you’ve done is to keep us, to keep me safe.” He looked as if he wanted to argue but didn’t, instead covering her hands with his own. “Jamie,  _ you  _ are my home.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper and he squeezed her fingers. “Do you hear me? It’s always been you.” 

He closed his eyes again and turned his face to press a kiss to her palm, his breath warm on the inside of her wrist. “I’ve put ye through so much, Claire. First Randall, and then Brigid…” His eyes were wet when he did open them again, and for a moment Claire was struck by just how young he really was, his eyes wide and full of sorrow. “I can’t ask ye to stand by me in this, too.” 

Claire shook her head, leaning forward to touch her forehead to his. “You’re not asking me, love. Neither of us wanted this but we will deal with whatever it brings our way.” She offered him a rueful smile and tugged on the hair at his temples, managing to elicit a small twitch of the mouth from him. “I’ll never leave you, Jamie.” 

He sighed heavily and she felt the warmth of it against her lips. “I ken it,  _ mo ghraidh. _ I made ye a vow when I wed ye and I’ll no’ break it. You are my heart as well as my home.” He moved his hands to her cheeks now and leaned in to kiss her sweetly, his fingers pressing into the skin behind her ears. When they finally drew apart, both still on edge though somewhat reassured, Claire moved to sit on the bench next to him, rubbing a hand down his back while he took her other between his own, tracing the lines of her palms. “Ye ken I’ll have no choice but to fight?” 

Claire pursed her lips and nodded, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I know.” Both knew the implications of Charlie’s decree. Jamie’s name listed him there among the rebels, branded a traitor to the English crown. Whatever had come before, whoever had signed Jamie’s name among their ranks, the only chance they had now was to help Charlie win. He had begun his walk along the path of war and dragged Jamie and Claire along with him. Their hands were tied. “I know.” 

* * *

The room was moon-bright, the passing clouds casting shadows across the ceiling as they drifted by. Claire lay awake, surrounded by the night as it hung over the castle; there was the sound of a lamb bleating somewhere outside, and the far-off tang of rain, covered only by the acrid smell of ash as the last of the night’s fires were smothered. Jamie lay on his back with his hands folded across his chest, still and silent as an effigy. The moon cast the sharp edges of his face in negative and she longed to reach out and touch him. His lips were pouted ever so slightly, reminding her once more of the young boy he so recently was, but even in sleep the lines between his brows were prominent, the edges of his mouth turned down. 

She propped herself up on her elbow carefully so as not to wake him. She so rarely had moments like these, able to watch him sleep. He often rose before she did, and he rarely went to bed without her, so her glimpses of him at rest were limited to the small hours of sleep he might steal during the day, or nights like these when she woke up and her heart was overcome with love and sorrow. 

He shifted ever so slightly in his sleep, his face turning towards her. She took in the broad expanse of his forehead, the clean edge of his nose, though crooked from breaking and setting over the years, and swept her eyes across his mouth, those lips she so loved to kiss, whose touch could send her reeling and whose words her soul heard. For a moment, she lamented over how unfair it all was, how much he deserved and how little he had been given. He was the best man she had ever known, the best she ever would know, and yet he had suffered so much cruelty at such a tender age. 

“Can a mortal be more righteous than God?” She whispered, her voice little more than a breath against her moving lips. “Can even a strong man be more pure than his Maker?” She stretched her hand out and, thinking of Job and his empty fields, ran her fingers down the side of his face. In his sleep, Jamie smiled. 

* * *

 

For three days they had peace. Then the knock came somewhere before dawn, stirring both of them from their sleep. Jamie urged her back to sleep and rose, padding barefoot to the door to peer out. A young man stood in the hallway, rocking from foot to foot and looking like a bird waiting to take off. Jamie blinked to clear his eyes and poked his face through the gap. “Can I help ye, laddie?” 

The boy cleared his throat but kept his voice low, glancing over Jamie’s shoulder into the darkness of the bedroom. “Aye, sir, I hope ye can forgive me for the wakin’ ye. It’s only, Himself has asked to see ye, sent word for ye immediately.” 

Jamie’s brow furrowed and he touched his tongue to his lips, trying to calm the sudden flip of his stomach. “Is all right?” 

“I canna say, sir, only that Himself wishes to see ye presently.” 

“Aye, alright. Give me a moment to dress.” He glanced back over his shoulder to where Claire still lay, balancing on the edge of sleep, and when he looked back to the doorway the boy was gone, already disappearing at the end of the hall. 

“Jamie?” Claire’s voice rose in a whisper from the bed as he dressed, doing his best not to make any noise, and he looked over to see her lift her head from the pillows, her hair a wild mess around her head. His heart smiled and he sighed, walking over and leaning down to kiss her. 

“Go back to sleep,  _ mo chridhe. _ ” He whispered as he drew back. “Tis only a problem wi’ one of the foaling mares. It’s not yet dawn.” His heart was heavy with the lie but she nodded, satisfied, and nestled back down among the pillows, falling almost immediately back to sleep. Suddenly overcome by love and fear, he reached out and lay a hand on her head. She did not stir. 

Colum was waiting for Jamie when he stepped into the office. The chieftain of the MacKenzie clan was stood behind his heavy cherry desk looking out the window, hands clasped behind his back. When Jamie entered he turned, hobbling on his crippled legs. “Jamie.” There was no friendliness in his voice, and yet no malice either. It was only empty. 

“Uncle,” Jamie said, giving a slight bow. His voice was still rusty with sleep. “Is something amiss?” His heart beat in his ears and he feared he already knew why he had been summoned, though not why in such wee hours of the morning. When Colum wasn’t looking, he shot a glance over his shoulder, half expecting to see the shadows armed against him, ready to open up his yielding throat. He swallowed. 

“I had hoped it would not come to this,  _ a bhalaich. _ ” There was a touch of remorse to his voice now and sweat pooled in the small of Jamie’s back, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. His fingertips brushed the hilt of his dirk. Colum saw and raised a hand, lowering himself into his chair. “There’s no need, Jamie. I’ll not murder ye. You are my sister’s son.” It seemed to pain him to say the words. “Sit.” He gestured to the chair opposite him. Still on edge, Jamie stepped forward and lowered himself into the seat. 

“Uncle, I-” Colum cut him off with a shake of his head and sighed. 

“There’s no need for that either.” He produced a piece of parchment from the top drawer of his desk and Jamie’s heart sunk. “I must admit, I had thought ye smarter than this, nephew.” He slid the paper across the desk and Jamie reached out to touch it, half believing it wasn’t real. “Do ye ken what ye’ve done?” 

His name stared up at him from the bottom of the page, looking alien and traitor in someone else’s script. “I ken it, Uncle,” he said softly, and brushed his fingers over the smudged ink. 

“Then why did ye do it?” 

Jamie closed his eyes for a moment and drew his hand back, resting it in his lap. “Honestly, Colum, I dinna ken how my name ended up on this page. But it’s there and the choice is made.” He longed to tell the chieftain that it was not his hand that had betrayed him, but Colum would never believe him. He had no tolerance for stupidity. 

“Aye, then that’s the heart of it.” Colum picked the letter up and folded it, returning it to its place in the drawer. “I can no longer offer ye a place here, Jamie.” Jamie’s head whipped up and his eyes went wide, his mouth falling open, but Colum did not let him speak. “I’m sorry to do it, but I have no choice. Ye’ve too much influence over the men here, and too much power. Ye’re the Laird of Lallybroch, and if ye declare for the Jacobites there will be others to follow. I canna have ye turning my own men against me.” 

Finally through the shock Jamie managed words. “But Uncle, ye must understand - Dougal, I dinna ken-” 

Colum cut him off once more. “I can keep my brother in line, but I cannae control both of ye. Ye must be gone. I want ye on the road before sunrise. There’s still time.” 

Jamie’s lungs deflated in his chest and he sagged, shattered. “I’ll be gone from ye then, Uncle, but I cannae promise it will be by sun-up. Claire’s got all of her things in the Beaton’s room - it will take hours for us to pack it all.” 

“I’ve had it done for ye already. I sent a few of the maids to see to it that her things were packed carefully. I’ll give ye a mule to carry her boxes, but that is the best that I can do for ye.” He splayed his hands on the desk and stood, seeming suddenly as tall and broad as Jamie remembered as a young boy. “I’m sorry, laddie.”


End file.
